Hard Corps: From Gangster to Marine Hero [NOOK Book]

Overview

At the age of seventeen, Marco Martinez was a thug—a gun-toting, car-stealing gang member.
At the age of twenty-two, he was a hero—the recipient of the Navy Cross, the second-highest honor a U.S. Marine can receive, for extraordinary heroism under fire in the Iraq War. Hard Corps tells the story of his incredible transformation and of his experiences on the front lines of the War on Terror.

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Hard Corps: From Gangster to Marine Hero

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Overview

At the age of seventeen, Marco Martinez was a thug—a gun-toting, car-stealing gang member.
At the age of twenty-two, he was a hero—the recipient of the Navy Cross, the second-highest honor a U.S. Marine can receive, for extraordinary heroism under fire in the Iraq War. Hard Corps tells the story of his incredible transformation and of his experiences on the front lines of the War on Terror.

Writing with passion and candor, Martinez brings us back to his gang days, detailing experiences that make him “shudder in shame” to remember. And he recalls the moment that changed everything for him, when he spotted a barrel-chested U.S. Marine Corps recruiter at his high school. Immediately, he saw an opportunity to alter the course of his aimless life.

Martinez takes us with him through the grueling ordeal of Marine boot camp and the even-more-punishing training at the School of Infantry to show just how warriors are made. He reveals how he and his fellow grunts prepared tirelessly for battle, seeing combat not as a burden but as a privilege, the ultimate baptism by fire.
For Martinez, that baptism came in Iraq. In Hard Corps, he unfolds a warrior’s tale as riveting, harrowing, and immediate as any ever written. He takes us onto the narrow, treacherous streets of Baghdad, where enemy fire rains down from all directions; alongside his Marine squad as they patrol through the most dangerous war zone imaginable; and into a brutal terrorist ambush that calls upon reserves of ferocity and courage none of the Marines could ever be certain they possessed and that proves the value of every moment of their torturous training. Martinez also recounts stunning reminders of why we fight: the Iraqi man he met whose tongue had been chopped off for speaking out against Saddam Hussein’s regime, the ghastly evidence of human experimentation that Martinez’s squad discovered at an abandoned Iraqi military barracks, and the horrifying mass graves the Marines unearthed in the Iraqi desert.

Hard Corps gives us a visceral sense of what it means to know that you are ready to die for your brother Marines and that they would do the same for you. It tells us how it feels when words like duty, honor, and country are not an empty slogan. And, ultimately, it captures the traditions and ooh-rah spirit of the U.S. Marine Corps and the valor of all the Marines, sailors, soldiers,


From the Hardcover edition.
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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

In this macho, profanity-laced memoir by a 2003 Iraqi invasion veteran, Martinez describes himself as a Hispanic juvenile delinquent from Albuquerque, N.Mex., who turned his life around by joining the marines in 2001. His exploits (including winning the Navy Cross) will entertain military buffs with precise details of combat and of a sadistic boot camp that recalls the antiwar movie (but Marine and Martinez favorite) Full Metal Jacket. Bonded and eager for battle, his unit yearned in vain to fight in Afghanistan after 9/11 and joyfully participated in Operation Iraqi Freedom. Though experts now agree our forces overwhelmed Saddam Hussein's disorganized army, Martinez and his men assumed they faced a vicious enemy, referred to by Martinez as "terrorists," and killed scores while destroying buildings with their overwhelming firepower. His company suffered two wounded. Martinez never doubts that he fought to defend America's freedom and freely admits his contempt for those who don't appreciate this. The book is peppered with denunciation of "biased news coverage," "liberals," "hippies," John Kerry and Anthony Swofford (ex-marine author of Jarhead), but readers who enjoy learning about the mechanics of an urban gang and of a marine platoon in combat are unlikely to object. (Sept. 18)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
Kirkus Reviews
A profane, testosterone-laced paean of love for the Marines and America and hatred for its enemies, which include Saddam Hussein's army and Americans who oppose the war. Martinez describes his adolescence in Albuquerque as a lawbreaking, school-hating, pugnacious gang member who, at the age of 17, abruptly decided to join the Marines. Readers may chuckle at his description of boot camp, which, with its sadistic discipline, fierce male-bonding enforced by mutual suffering and violence and contempt for non-Marines, seems a better organized version of the author's gang. Bitterly disappointed to see other Marines sent to Afghanistan after 9/11, Martinez and his unit were thrilled to join the 2003 invasion of Iraq. His unit endured an exhausting month of intermittently bitter combat during which Martinez won a Navy Cross for heroic action during an ambush. From day one of the invasion, the author refers to the enemy as terrorists and points out how greatly they outnumbered his men, but readers may be most impressed with the Marines' crushingly superior firepower. Martinez's company suffered two wounded soldiers, but their rifles, tanks, artillery and aircraft killed scores of enemy soldiers and razed innumerable buildings to the ground. With victory achieved, his unit returned to the United States. When its presence in Iraq was required the following year, he could have accompanied it, but his term had expired, and he did not re-enlist. Although clearly a man who loves his country, Martinez spends considerably less time illustrating what he loves than denouncing what he hates: Americans who don't deliver unqualified support of America's wars, which include "hippies," "liberals," John Kerry andAnthony Swofford (author of Jarhead). He repeatedly denounces Jarhead, but the Marines in Swofford's bestselling 2003 memoir, despite their adolescent horseplay, were vividly entertaining characters-and no slouches as warriors. Despite his sincerity, Martinez lacks Swofford's writing skills. Consequently, his book may appeal only to those whose uncritical love of our fighting men matches his own.
From the Publisher
“[An] epic tale of the redemptive power of military service, the glories and horrors of war, and the constant quest for forgiveness and acceptance . . . Gritty, gripping . . . Riveting, poignant, and, yes, inspirational.”
Military Times

“Adrenaline-laced prose that will rock your world.”
Star Tribune

“An improbable story, one that Martinez vividly tells in his warts-and-all memoir.”
Investor’s Business Daily

“Riveting and poignant . . . Hard Corps recounts the way the characteristics [of cohesion, loyalty, trust, and comradeship] are built during Marine boot camp and infantry training. . . . We should be thankful for . . . Marco Martinez and countless others who have been willing to lay a ‘costly . . . sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.’ ”
Weekly Standard

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780307408037
  • Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 9/25/2007
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Sales rank: 622,006
  • File size: 331 KB

Meet the Author

MARCO MARTINEZ became the first Hispanic American since Vietnam to be awarded the Navy Cross and the first Marine to receive that honor in the War on Terror. Raised in New Mexico, he now attends a community college in Southern California while working full-time in nuclear security.


From the Hardcover edition.
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Read an Excerpt

1

Sixteen with a Bullet

The 9 mm Smith & Wesson balanced on my right thigh had its grip wrapped in white medical tape. It was a big son of a bitch, and it had been fired numerous times before. An engraving tool had been used to scratch and grind the trigger. This, along with the tape, would make lifting fingerprints all but impossible. Over the last two years, I'd held and fired numerous weapons. When TEC-9s were cool, we would drive out to New Mexico deserts and shoot shit up. But this was something different. The 9 mm resting on my leg wasn't going to be used for target practice.

"I wish this pussy-ass muthafucka would hurry up and get home," Damien said as he looked at the house three doors down the street. "I'm ready to do this."

We were both ready to do this. We'd cinched knots in the rags wrapped around our heads and tucked them up under our hats so they could be quickly yanked down to cover our faces, like a train robber would in a western. My rag was brown. Damien's was black. That day I wore stereotypical 1990s-style Hispanic gangster gear, complete with Ben Davis threads, Mad Dogg sunglasses with "100% Chicano" emblazoned on the sides, and a black baseball cap with raiders stitched across its face in Old English script. The car we were staked out in belonged to a fellow gang member. I was sixteen years old.

Damien was in my gang and was down for anything. He was half-white, half-Mexican, six feet tall, with brown eyes and slicked-back dark hair. His girlfriend's jealous ex-boyfriend--the one whose house we were spying on--had just been released from jail and had, two days earlier, sworn his intention to kill Damien and me. Sitting in the borrowed car, sloshing a bottle of Olde English 800 back and forth, we were preparing to beat him to the punch.

"I still can't believe this muthafucka tried to fuck with us," Damien said. "I ain't gonna let that shit ride."

Damien was referring to the events that had taken place just two days earlier. Around 3:30 p.m. on a hot Albuquerque afternoon, Damien and I had just left his girlfriend's house and were driving down Eubank in Damien's sapphire-blue 1982 Buick Regal lowrider. Bumping Oldies music with the windows rolled down, we came to a red light. That's when a dark-gray Chevy Beretta with limousine-tinted windows pulled up inches from Damien's driver door.

"What the fuck?" Damien said.

The passenger side window rolled down. An outstretched arm holding a 9 mm handgun was now pointed at our faces.

"What's up, motherfuckers?" the ex-con, ex-boyfriend yelled.

"What the fuck you going to do, pussy?" Damien yelled back.

"I'm going to blast you and your bitch friend, motherfucker!" he said.

"Shut the fuck up, pussy!" Damien yelled.

The 9 mm pistol in his hand was the same style of weapon I'd later carry with me in Iraq, but at the moment the handgun was pointed at me. I should have kept quiet. I didn't keep quiet. Instead, I went primal.

"Do it, pussy!" I yelled. "Come on, bitch! Do it! DO IT, MOTHERFUCKER! Shoot me, you piece of fucking shit!"

Taunting an armed homicidal maniac fresh out of jail is generally a bad idea. But I wasn't smart. I was a shithead.

I yelled out my "set" (gang name).

Slowly the gun began to lower.

He knew my gang. He'd fucked up. I pressed on.

"Yeah, bitch!" I screamed through the car window. "That's right! Do it and see if you don't get blasted, you stupid motherfucker!"

The light turned green. He U-turned. We sped straight. Damien immediately dialed up his girlfriend to warn her and tell her what had just happened. More phone calls were made, guns and cars were supplied, and before we knew it, we were armed and sitting in a car in broad daylight, dressed like the hoodlums we were, just three homes from the would-be assassin's house.

Two hours. That's how long we waited--the first day, that is. The next day, we faced more of the same: no homicidal ex-boyfriend, no one to shoot and kill. Inside my sixteen-year-old shithead mind this was about honor and protection. This was something worth dying for. But whether he saw us and left or whether he had been tipped off in advance, the person we had come for never appeared. Sometimes when I lie down at night, my mind rewinds to that exact moment. There I am, sitting in that car with that gun, an insecure, violent, cocky, disgraceful little sixteen-year-old punk. I want to reach through time and kick my own ass. I want to scream at him: "What the fuck are you about to do? This isn't worth dying for. Turn around! There's more for you; this isn't what God put you here to do. Go home!"

But I can't do that. And even if I could, it haunts me to know it likely wouldn't have done any good.

Many years later, long after I'd left gang life and been given the privilege and honor of becoming a U.S. Marine, I learned that the ex-con boyfriend who'd sworn he'd kill us got killed in a gang shooting. That would have been my fate had it not been for the United States Marine Corps. Of this I am certain.

All I am or ever do, I owe to my beloved Corps.

I'm not sure I have a good answer as to how a kid with solid and supportive parents fell into the gang life so young. But what I do know is that ever since I can remember, I have dreamed of being on the battlefield. That's true of a lot of military brats. I craved adventure, and that's one thing gang life is never short on. Growing up on Fort Bliss in El Paso, Texas, my childhood friend Abe and I played "war" with the neighborhood boys every single day after school. We were four years old and already seasoned "playground warriors." Our childhood was the type that would horrify a child psychologist, but military brats would call it normal. My friends and I lived in the worn-out cammies (camouflage uniforms) our mothers bought us from the local PX (post exchange) and scribbled pictures of tanks, jets, troops, and rifles in tropic scenes. It was great. The parents of future Olympians ship their kids off to training centers at ridiculously young ages. Earl Woods had Tiger gripping a putter straight out of the womb. So I guess you could say that base life was my military training ground.

When my neighborhood buddies and I weren't slow-creeping through brush in anticipation of ambushes, sprinting to invisible chopper LZs (landing zones), or pumping imaginary rounds from our blue toy M-16 rifles into enemy chests, we were sitting in front of a television mesmerized by my childhood idol, John Rambo. That movie influenced me so much that as a kid I tried unsuccessfully to copy Rambo's chest scars. Mom's butter knife never could get the job done.

All my earliest childhood memories are related to the military. My dad being a soldier in the Army only fueled my desire to serve. Growing up military, every day was a blur of cool military vehicles whizzing by, tough-looking men in serious-looking uniforms, aircraft rumbling overhead, and powerful weapons carried by our fathers. Generations of American boys have grown up playing with G.I. Joes, plastic green Army men, and toy guns, but the military bug had bitten me unusually young and unusually hard. I remember being five years old and asking God to please let Rambo pick me up in a helicopter so we could go on missions together in misty jungles. For the life of me I couldn't understand why the armed forces had yet to recruit me. Not having finished kindergarten seemed like such a technicality.

Being consumed by all things military was also a family affair. Even my mom got in on the action. I used to sit in my bedroom on an olive drab cot while my mother and father set up a slide projector. My mom would flick off the lights before gripping the little projector clicker. I'd sit there wearing my ragged cammies as she advanced through slide after slide of friendly and enemy aircraft (most of the latter were Chinese- and Soviet-made). The images would flash up on my bedroom wall, large and in color. When an enemy aircraft would pop up on the screen, I would pretend that I shot it down with an antiaircraft (AA) gun. As part of his job, my dad had to memorize and be able to identify aircraft instantly.

"Hind Dee."

Click.

"Mig."

Click.

"Tornado."

Click.

"F-18."

Click.

"F-16."

My mom then called out Dad's official time. Some nights these "family bonding" sessions lasted hours.

When I turned five, my father was ordered to Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The house the Army put us up in was less than a quarter mile from a hangar that housed a fighter-jet squadron. This was back when the movie Top Gun was huge. So when I saw the movie with my new friends from across the street, Charles and Richard, we got a brilliant idea: We should sneak into the jet hangar. Dodging sentries as we went, we somehow made it all the way to the jets and actually touched the aircraft and missiles. (Thank God government facilities are better guarded now!) Our plan to get into a cockpit was cut short when an ordnance technician started yelling and chasing us. We narrowly escaped capture and later bragged to all our friends that we had flown the jets.

My earliest understanding of actual warfare came in 1991 with the first Gulf War. I was in fifth grade and a few guys in my class liked playing war and some even had their own green jungle boots. I bugged the hell out of my poor parents for a pair of my own, which they picked up at Kaufman's, a surplus store. Once the war broke out, and images of bruised POWs began popping up everywhere on TV, I started watching the news. Unlike Rambo, this was real. I tuned in daily to see what would happen to the twenty-one Americans being held hostage. I think that's when war began morphing from fantasy into reality for me. My neighborhood friends and I had spent our time watching war movies, exploring the flight line near our homes, and getting as close as we could to the hangars to steal glimpses of the gargantuan C-130s, sleek F-16s, and even the occasional Stealth Fighter that came and went. But now I was beginning to connect the dots. The POWs on TV were somehow connected to those aircraft. The sound of F-16s taking off now began to take on new meaning.

I lost and gained friends on a regular basis. It was just a part of military life. The relationships and memories all stay with you, but the whereabouts of those friends and what happens to them just fade away. Living like a nomad forces you to learn how to hitch and unhitch yourself emotionally from people and surroundings. When I entered middle school, I found it all too easy to hook up with a new crew and quickly integrate myself with the new culture.

My new best friend, Angel, was a tough kid from a bad neighborhood called "The Kirt." Angel was a dark-skinned Mexican American kid who taught me an essential lesson in Hispanic culture: Mexicans weren't supposed to part their hair. He said his older cousin had taught him that, and he urged me to slick my hair back along with him. I had never had any problems with my hairstyle and even kind of liked it, but now I couldn't believe I had been oblivious to this important rule. So, on the last day of sixth grade, the decision was made: We would show up on the first day of seventh grade with our hair slicked back with a fade. I spent that summer reading Lowrider magazine and training my hair back with a woman's knee-high stocking that I wore while sleeping. To this day, I still read Lowrider magazine. But the knee stocking hair thing was ridiculous.

On the first day of school, I proudly met Angel and a bunch of other Mexican kids, who all had slicked back their hair. Then I noticed my friend Jerome had changed, too. A skinny, short black kid with short hair and a reputation for not giving a fuck about consequences, Jerome was now dressed from head to toe in red clothes and walked with a small group of black kids from Angel's neighborhood who also wore all red. Standing not far from us was another group of black kids, but they were wearing all blue. They had issues with Jerome and his crew.

This was my first real exposure to the Bloods and the Crips. Things went downhill immediately. Kids flashed gang signs, yelled out their "sets," and then started shoving one another. The school staff quickly broke it up, and when the bell rang, everyone was forced to disperse.

At lunch, Angel's older cousin and a group of older Mexican kids told us that if anyone messed with us during the year, they would take care of it. Angel's cousin said our newly formed group of a dozen or so Mexicans should agree to have one another's backs. And that's how fast it happened. By the end of the first day of seventh grade, I was part of a crew.

I soon took to wearing gangster gear--Nike Cortez, heavy starch creased jeans, white T-shirts, and Mad Doggs or Locs (sunglasses). I wasn't in a gang yet, but I was headed in that direction. It started off with jumping guys and starting shit with other kids. But it wasn't all just fighting. In my English class, I'd met Kevin, an upper-middle-class white kid who lived in a nice area of Albuquerque. He didn't look the part. He had hazel eyes, longer, nicely styled light brown hair and looked like he should be at a country club somewhere being an asshole to a waiter. But in reality, he was one of the most skilled "taggers" (graffiti artists) in the southeast section of Albuquerque. Kevin taught me his style. I taught him mine. And from that point on, a friendship was born.

Since we weren't eighteen yet, Kevin's older cousin would buy some of our "art supplies." It was illegal for minors to buy Magnum 44 markers. Tagging and sniffing were near epidemic. At night, we would sneak out of our houses and meet up at the Taco Bell on Gibson Street right outside the base gate and spend the whole night "bombing" the southeast section of the city.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Table of Contents


Official Navy Cross Citation XIII Prologue: A Step Forward, a Look Back 1 Chapter 1 Sixteen with a Bullet 9 Chapter 2 Going Grunt 31 Chapter 3 House of Pain 45 Chapter 4 Fubar 63 Chapter 5 Far Eastbound 97 Chapter 6 Pray for War 105 Chapter 7 Three Days in a War 127 Chapter 8 Contact 161 Chapter 9 By the Grace of God 185 Chapter 10 The Killing Fields 203 Chapter 11 Rifle Sight Is 20/20 225 Epilogue: Parting Shots 235 Acknowledgments 237
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Sort by: Showing all of 8 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 15, 2012

    Grewl

    Great book if you love or are you are in military

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 19, 2010

    a true warriors book

    Hard corps is a amazing book, though some might be offended by martinez's teelling it like it is i (and probly many others) belive that it would not be a true marine memoir if he diddnt. Hard corps is and amazing book telling the story of Marco Martinez, and how he grew up a good for nothing, trash talking, gun toting, gangster, to a proud United States Marine, who was the first latino-american to be awarded the navy cross (second only to the medal of honor) since veitnom. the major themes are very easy to decipher in this book, Honor, Duty, Pride, and Faith are all present within it. anyone who likes military books or movies should read this and i have absolutly nothing bad to say about it. I give it a 12 out of 10.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 6, 2009

    Thoroughly Enjoyed Reading Marinez's Story

    I enjoyed reading Martinez's story and learning of his transformation from an aimless, self-absorbed, cowardly punk to a man steeled under fire by experiences that one would not wish on their enemy. I am very proud of men like Martinez and his fellow Marines past and present who have layed it all on the line and continue to do so for you and me. <BR/><BR/>I also appreciate him shooting from the hip and telling it like it is. Some may take offense at the truth Martinez shares with the reader. So if you are a whiny liberal you may not want to read a healthy dose of truth. Martinez clearly states how he feels "...The Marines I know don¿t have a lot of patience for b......t. In fact, a healthy hatred for b......t is hardwired into us; it¿s part of our training. Come to think of it, we Marines hate a lot of things: We hate .......Senator John "I married rich" Kerry who thinks their Ivy League diplomas somehow make them better than all us military dum-dums who didn't study hard enough and got "stuck in Iraq" (what an arogant ass that guy is)....." The truth is the truth and Martinez lays it out all there like it is. "If they want to say the Military breeds violence, I disagree. And I should know. Sometimes it takes having used violence for both evil as well as good to know there's a profond moral difference between the two. Violence isn't senseless. Senseless violence is senseless."

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 20, 2007

    A 'must read' for those who serve or have served in The Corps

    For those people who have any sort connection with the Marine Corps, I believe you will definitely enjoy this book. For those who don't and have ever wanted an honest insight into what life in the corps is like, this book is also for you. Martinez holds back nothing as he recounts his experiences growing up and as a grunt in the marines. And as you read, every word of will have you glued to the book from beginning to end. It is a quick and easy read however, don't underestimate it, it is no doubt an exciting, action packed, and motivating book to read. You may even stop from time to time and reminisce about some of your experiences in the Marine Corps while reading. I absolutely recommend this book to any and all Marines whether active, retired, or reservist!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 5, 2007

    Important facts to know before reading this book.

    While this book may be criticized for it's lack of a two sided approach to the war and it's participants, it's important to keep in mind these few things while reading or condsidering reading this book. One, the negative views of Swofford 'Author of Jarhead' are shared almost to a man among active duty Marines. Jarhead was Swofford's personal take on his experience and this is the view of Martinez. Martinez is the type of Marine you hope to serve with, lead or follow. Swofford spent his time over-analyizing the group of people he freely chose to serve with then threw them under the bus in his accounts of their accomplishments in battle (whether true or made up by him). Most would rather administratively seperate Swofford from active duty than serve with him whereas Martinez is what you'd like to make a platoon from. Two, a comparison of the authors isn't fair based on their backgrounds and own life experiences prior to joining the Marines. Martinez was a gang banger who grew up in the streets and became a Marine to escape that life. He entered the Corps a menace to society in most ways but returned to society as a positive example of what the Marines can do with a wayward young man and more importantly a war hero who loves his country and would lay down his life to defend her. Swofford joined the Marines probably as an effort to make his parents mad more than anything else and then whined about his experience as an effort to turn a buck. It worked for him and he was probably smart to give it a go, it is doubtful anything other than his experience in the Marines could have given him the motivation and hands on experience to write such a story in the first place. Well educated and well provided for, Swofford came not only from the other side of the fence than Martinez. He came from a completely different area code. If you enjoy reading stories of true combat experience from a warrior's perspective then by all means buy this book and recommend it to friends. If you prefer to read stories that are likely to be printed in the New York Times then buy a subscription to that filthy rag. Lord knows they could use the help these days.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 25, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted August 1, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted November 27, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

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